


dance and drink and screw

by plastics



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Class Differences, Comeplay, Control Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-16 18:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: It’s not like Mason didn’t know Kennedy was an asshole. Even in that first year when Mason was convinced he’d found his golden ticket and that all he had to do now was follow the rules until the gates swung open on a more blessed life, he'd known.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vandoorne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandoorne/gifts).

> Felt like I misinterpreted the tag about five different ways, hope this treat still works!

Mason knew Kennedy was completely unlike himself from the moment they met.

He’d known going to St. Ambrosius would be different from where he’d spent his first eighteen years—so blessedly different—but, somehow, it’d never fully occurred to him what it would be like to be surrounded by the type of people who were born to go to this school or one just like it. It wasn’t even that people treated him all that differently, but things snuck through. Rosa wasn’t joking about her family having to find a new marina to dock their yacht at, and the designer clothes overflowing from Benji’s closet weren’t knockoffs.

Kennedy was all that and more. He practically _ glowed _with a careless confidence, like he owned every room he walked into—and he did. People were drawn to him. He could choose anyone, anything, and it’d be his by the end of the night.

That same guy walked back to their dorm with Mason on that first night of orientation, when their leader went a little too deep into the whole this-is-a-Catholic-school thing. Suffered through a year of dining hall food, long nights before econ exams, the deep chill of winter by Mason’s side. Not once did he blink when, slowly, Mason admitted his hometown was not-so-great, and that his family was maybe a bit worse than that, and, anyway, they wouldn’t have enough to help Mason out with school even if they wanted to, but his scholarship took care of most of it—it’s why he came here in the first place.

So. Kennedy was different. Mason’s not so stupid as to not know what the difference _ was. _

* * *

It went like this—things really were mostly fine with Mason’s scholarship, as in, he had places to sleep and eat, a goal to work towards, and a benchmark to maintain.

Things his scholarship did not fix: a roommate that did not care about how light a sleeper Mason was, the staleness of dining hall food after the first month, no minimum wage job wanting to take on a double major who couldn’t reliably carve twenty hours a week out of his schedule, the cost of meeting classmates in a local cafe that does not accept loitering, the cost of meeting there every day, the cost of his share of contraband alcohol, the cost of a new pair of boots, the cost of Adderall, the cost of a trip to Montreal that everyone else is going on, the cost of sitting in that dorm room, alone for once, dining halls closed, his stomach cramping, and watching everyone else live a life worth living.

* * *

The thing with Kennedy started innocently enough. At least, Mason thought it did. A coffee here. A copped beer there.

Maybe it really started over winter recess—“You should totally come to my place,” Kennedy said after Mason admitted that he was trying and failing to get Student Life to let him stay on campus over break.

“That’d be sick,” Mason said.

“I’m serious,” Kennedy replied, and, like he could hear Mason thinking about bus tickets, train tickets, he waved a hand through the air and continued, “I have so many miles on my credit card dude. It’d be nothing.”

Mason thought about pride, and then he thought about spending Christmas with Kennedy’s picture-perfect family and New Year’s Eve in Manhattan, and he said, “I mean, if you really mean it, it’s not like I’m going to say no.”

But probably it started for real in the spring, when the fucking ultimate frisbee team took over the Northern Quad. Mason did his utmost to avoid them, but circling around would have added another ten minutes to his walk, and his discussion leader liked to lock the door right at 6:15, like she had any real authority. And so, that’s how Mason found himself walking briskly, eyes on the horizon, trying to hold even a basic clue about the Coarse theorem in his head long enough to get this attendance quiz out of the way, when some disc-wielding hooligan straight up tackled him.

Or, well, it probably wasn’t a proper tackle, but it was hard to be objective as Mason suddenly found himself not-vertical before his head cracked hard against a tree.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” the guy was saying. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t see,” Mason snapped. His head was ringing, and he could feel little stinging cuts all down one side of his face, worse over his left eyebrow.

“Oh, shit!”

Mason rolled his eyes, though it hurt. The world remained an incomprehensible blob. “Help me find my glasses.”

He patted around uselessly. It wasn’t surprising that the other guy was one the one who said, “Uh, here you go, buddy.”

Mason took the frames. They felt weak in his fingers, but Mason told himself that didn’t mean much—they were ancient. He hooked the arms over his ears. Blinked his eyes open. Blinked again.

“These are fucking broken, _ buddy.” _

Mason could partially make out the gormless look on his face as he shrugged uselessly.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Kennedy fumed, later. “You can’t just claim some public space and deny any responsibility when someone gets hurt. Did you get this guy’s name?”

“I’m not filing a civil suit against the ultimate frisbee team,” Mason said.

“I’ll do it. Pro bono. Hell, _ Mary Grace _ would do it,” Kennedy replied, and when Mason laughed, his face only stung a little. As lovely as Kennedy’s mom had been the last few times Mason met her, he could so easily imagine her storming onto campus, getting a private audience with the dean of students, and suddenly there being no more Ultimate. It wouldn’t even take a suit—the Kennedys only have a bench named after them, but Mason still had a feeling that bench could buy his entire life five times over. “We have to get your glasses fixed, at least.”

Mason shrugged. “My prescription’s changed since I got them. Not sure how much of a difference they made.”

Kennedy went silent. Mason poked at his dinner—mountains of Chinese takeout that Kennedy had ordered as soon as he was done fretting over the state of Mason’s face. Eventually, he said, “You know, all those headaches you've been getting—”

“Yeah, Kennedy, I do know,” Mason snapped. He’d already burned through the couple hundred he’d saved by getting old editions of his textbooks, or not getting them at all, and new glasses probably would have taken the whole bunch. “Not much I can do about it.”

He ate another dumpling. Kennedy pulled his laptop closer. Mason thought the topic was dropped until Kennedy said, “Are you still free Thursday at ten?”

“Yeah,” Mason replied absently.

“Okay, then, we now have an appointment with Dr. Porter Carmichael. I had a rent a ZipCar, too, so doubly don’t sleep in.”

“Kennedy—”

_ “Mason,” _Kennedy interrupts. “Come on. You can’t go around not being able to see. My mom would kill me if I let that happen to her new favorite son.”

And Mason thought about pride, again, and he thought about how, sometimes, when he was lying in bed, cold and hungry and unwilling to acknowledge that he was cold and hungry, he’d Google the tuition of his friends’ high schools, find their denim overshirts from Saks, add all the food they ate into Whole Foods’ delivery service then never press send.

What was Mason supposed to do, deny himself endlessly? It meant nothing to them. He might not know exactly what Kennedy’s allowance was, but even Mason’s most luxurious dreams couldn’t put a dent in it.

So that’s how Mason ended up with Kennedy hovering over his shoulder, either literally or figuratively, as he got his eyes examined, went over options for his new lenses (“He spends a lot of time on his computer, will these help with the glare? Do you recommend acetate frames? Will he need a second pair?” Kennedy asked,) and choosing his new frames.

Actually, Kennedy pretty much took over the last one. Mason had never much cared about style, so it was an easy cede to let Kennedy walk around, pick up frames, hold them up to Mason’s face, and put them down again until he found a pair he liked.

When Kennedy handed over his credit card at the end, nobody asked any questions.

(The sex happened separately, Mason told himself. It had been nice. That last week before school started up again, they’d been Kennedy’s childhood bedroom and fell asleep watching movies that didn’t make them think. Mason woke up again sometime before dawn, and so had Kennedy, and instead of kicking Mason out, he’d kissed him and jerked off onto his stomach while Mason humped his thigh. Then they’d both went to sleep again, woke up again, and that had been that.)

When the glasses arrived, though, Kennedy was so excited. The bag they came in had the sort of iconic logo Mason had only come to recognize on sight in the last few months. He tried them on. They fit perfectly. Everything came into sharp clarity.

Looking into the mirror, he felt unlike himself. The frames were bigger than he’d pick out for himself, semi-rimmed black with silver accents. They looked classy, if Mason had to use a word.

“Well,” Mason said. “I guess I finally look like I belong at St. Ambs.”

Kennedy pulled him into a kiss, one that almost immediately cranked up the heat. He bit at Mason’s lips, tongued at his teeth, his hands firm on either side of Mason’s neck. After a hot minute, he broke off enough to say, voice low, “I think you owe me some gratitude.”

Kennedy had waved off every awkward attempt Mason ever made at saying thank you, from that first coffee to New York to right after they left the optometrist’s, and bringing it up now sent a fizzle of something heavy and sour bloomed in Mason’s stomach. It had to be a joke. Mason rolled his eyes dramatically and said, “Oh,_ thank you, _ sir, I’m _ so _grateful for the gift of sight you have bestowed upon me—”

Kennedy pushed down on his shoulders. Honestly, it made more sense. Mason could suck dick and let Kennedy talk the sort of shit that turned Mason’s face red easier. That was nothing new.

Once it was out and hot in Mason’s hand, he continued, just to make sure, “Gosh, Kennedy, what a beautiful cock you have, truly, I feel so blessed to be in its presence—”

“Shut the fuck up, Mase,” Kennedy responded. He fisted a hand in Mason’s hair—it was getting too long, but Mason hated going to the university barber who clearly didn’t know the first thing about styling curls, traditional ten-dollar cuts for affiliated personnel be damned—and dragged Mason’s mouth towards his cock, already mostly hard and flushed at the tip.

In all honesty, Mason did like sucking Kennedy’s dick. He loved the ache in his jaw, loved being surrounded by Kennedy, loved how he could get past that exterior and really get him going, hands twitching, thighs jerking because he wanted _ more _of Mason.

On one thrust, it made Mason gag and start coughing, but even that was hot, being able to strain himself and drool messily over his chin for Kennedy, and Kennedy would tilt Mason’s head up so he can see and groan and take himself in hand and jerk hard

The only warning Mason got was a drawn out, familiar “Fuu-ck” before Kennedy’s come was splashing onto his face, down his neck, only barely catching his stuck-out tongue, selfish in a way that made Mason follow pursuit not long after into his own hand.

“Did you seriously just come all over my new glasses?” Mason complained. The disgust always came fairly quickly to Mason once the haze of arousal leaking away, but Kennedy could stay smug for hours after—like a pig in mud, an unwelcome echo of what Mason’s father would say.

But Kennedy wasn’t the type to be shamed. He just laughed, and said, “Well, technically, they’re _ my _new glasses. You just happen to be wearing them.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not like Mason didn’t _ know _Kennedy was an asshole. Even in that first year when Mason was convinced he’d found his golden ticket and that all he had to do now was follow the rules until the gates swung open on a more blessed life, being around Kennedy for any amount of time started to show his cracks. And Kennedy wanted Mason around a lot.

Kennedy loved him, Mason was pretty sure. Whatever the fuck else was going on, that had to be at the heart of it.

* * *

Mason walked out of his advisor's office with his face numb. It just—it didn’t seem fair. For four years, he did whatever they asked of him to maintain his scholarship, keep on track for graduation, stay at this school, and then it was just… nothing. _ Here’s your degree and a slap on the ass, good luck out there! _

His phone buzzed again in his pocket. He rubbed hard at his eyes before pulling it out, swiping away the missed texts, and returning the last missed call.

“Hey, honey,” Mason said.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Kennedy demanded.

“I told you, I had class, and then I had an appointment with my advisor.”

“That was five hours ago!”

“It was a three-hour class,” Mason responded patiently. He could already feel his feet dragging, as badly as he wanted to be home. Or, well, he wanted to lie down in bed and sleep for twelve hours, and his bed was at home, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be_ there. _Maybe coffee first.

“Listen, Ken, I’m going to stop by Gravel & Stone, and then I’m coming right back to the apartment, okay?” Mason held the phone to his ear until the silence gave way to the _ beep-beep _ of a dropped call.

It wasn’t a long walk. Nothing was within the greater campus area, and fuck if Mason wasn’t getting a little sick of that. Gravel & Stone’s evening crowd had already settled in, so it was a short enough wait to get up to the counter. He ordered without much thought and handed over his debit card, his eyes still mostly scanning messages for anything important he missed. When the moment dragged, he glanced back up.

The cashier had the corner of her mouth in her teeth, hand holding his card in the chip reader, eyes focused on the screen. When the light flashed red, presumably not for the first time, she looked up again and said, voice filled with apology, “I’m sorry, sir, it says your card’s been declined.”

“I’m not— _ it’s _not—” then Mason exhaled. “It’s fine, I have cash. Can you make this to go, please?”

The card is in his name. The account it linked back to, with all the administrative powers, is under _ William Kennedy V. _Funny how that swung so quickly between meaning absolute freedom and none at all.

Outside, everything was wet and gray in that way that promised a spring flush of pink soon, the perfect time to shoot graduation photos or school ads, followed swiftly by heat and green and walking the field up to that graduation stage. The thought made Mason nauseated. He was grateful to be walking home in the cool darkness.

Mason and Kennedy’s apartment wasn’t far from campus, although, again, it was hard not to be and still remain within the town limits of Bishop. Not that that would be a particular turnoff to Kennedy, but Mason still made an effort.

The building was nice. Not unlike the houses some of his better-off friends in high school lived in, only gutted, rebuilt, and priced to satisfy the student population. Not that Mason didn’t like the place, but he wasn’t necessarily thrilled with the impact projects like these had on the local economy.

But all that was far from his mind as he climbed the stairs up to their front door. It’d been too quick for the lock to be changed, but Mason still stood for a long moment with his key in the deadbolt, filled with dread. It’d be fine. It’d be _ fine, _ he just went to _ class. _ It wasn’t not his fault that Kennedy had completely dismissed the concept since his Columbia Law deposit was paid for. Which was a complete joke in itself, but whatever.

Mason rolled his eyes one last time to himself before opening the door.

Kennedy didn’t look away from the TV. He didn’t answer when Mason said with practiced ease, “Hi, Ken, how was your day? I was thinking of making carbonara for dinner. Doesn’t that sound good?”

He didn’t wait for a response before opening the fridge. Their full fridge, with organic eggs and guanciale and pecorino that didn’t come out of a plastic can just _ waiting _for him. And Mason was used to letting himself enjoy this life despite Kennedy’s moods.

The silence lasted through dinner, evening shows, Mason’s nighttime shower, into bed. For a peaceful moment, Mason had hoped they’d just be able to sleep it off.

He knew as soon as Kennedy sauntered into the bedroom that that wouldn’t be the case. 

Kennedy was the sort of hot that was painful to look at, sometimes, and even worse was that he knew that he could flex his abs, smile just enough for his dimples to show and be himself, and it’d overwhelm anyone he focused that attention onto. Mason knew this, carried it around like a too-much-candy sickness, and still, he felt some parts of his horny monkey brain stirring when Kennedy crawled into his lap.

Mason didn’t know why he was feeling contradictory that night. He should be grateful all Kennedy wanted as an apology was a fuck. By any reasonable measure, it shouldn’t be any real chore. But as soon as Kennedy tried deepening the kiss, Mason felt himself squirm.

“Babe, I don’t know if I’m up for it tonight,” Mason said.

And Kennedy did freeze, but Mason could feel the anger begin to radiate off of him as soon as it left his mouth. His voice was sharp enough to cut as he responded, “Sure. Of course, _ babe. _ You’re not up for after a night out with your _advisor__.”_

“You’ve met my advisor! He’s a million years old!”

“Yeah, and I’ve met that one guy in your class, Holden or whatever the fuck—”

“Oh, my fucking god, you can’t seriously be talking about Holden right now.”

“I sure as fuck can when you’re all out night and then crawl back into my bed like it’s no big deal,” Kennedy snapped, and Mason could suddenly see the rest of that night with perfect clarity. The rest of the week. It wouldn’t be the first time Mason got kicked out for digging his heels in.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Mason said, forcing out every bit of sincerity. “I really was just with my advisor, it just… didn’t go great, and I guess I was feeling insecure.”

Mason trailed his fingers down the smooth swell of Kennedy’s bicep—he was easy to distract with the right stroke of his ego, an ounce of the truth. He could see the heat sliding back into Kennedy’s eyes, easy as that, as Kennedy wrapped a loose hand around Mason’s throat.

“Aw, it’s okay, Mase. I can make you forget all about that,” Kennedy said, his voice low. Kennedy pushed Mason’s shirt up and over his head. The process knocked his glasses out of place, but Kennedy gently pushed them back in place, smiling as he said, “Fuck, you’re cute.”

Mason squirmed as Kennedy’s hands trailed downward. He hissed as he felt Kennedy thumb over his nipples; they were always so oversensitive, hardwired to his dick, and Kennedy knew exactly how to play with him, starting slow and soft before those strong fingers pinched the tightening nub between them, the occasional scratch of well-manicured nails only making his dick more interested. 

“You’re so fucking easy for me,” Kennedy murmurs, and Mason squirmed uncomfortably. There were too many mixed messages—how good it felt, how it could be better, how little he actually wanted this right then, with Kennedy, of all people, who could get a little…

A low growl warned Mason before Kennedy shoved him hard against the headboard. He made an accidental noise, but it just edged Kennedy on. Mason felt a forearm press against his neck and thrashed hard. This was a fun part for Kennedy, but it always made Mason a little nervous—not because Kennedy was all that rough but because he never knew when it was going to stop. If Kennedy really would or just laugh it off as part of the bit. 

But it was fine. Kennedy stopped once he had Mason in the position he wanted him in, hands strong between his shoulder blades long enough to make a point before they traced down Mason’s sides, along the hem of his briefs. Mason lifted his hips to ease their removal, but Kennedy’s hands just kept wandering, fingers digging in over the cloth, pressing up against his hole. It was a dry feeling but Mason still felt his hips pressing back automatically.

He felt Kennedy’s hands move again, followed by a strange tightening, and then the tear of cotton.

“Jesus,” Mason gasped, but Kennedy just laughed.

“It’s mine, it’s all mine,” Kennedy sang. Elastic still clung to Mason’s waist and thighs, but he could feel the air conditioning blowing over the newly bared skin—Kennedy always had it on, even in the dead of winter. 

Kennedy kept a possessive hand on Mason’s ass as he leaned away, and when he came back, he spread Mason open and drizzle lube direction onto his hole. It makes him gasp and try to squirm away, but Kennedy held fast.

“Calm down,” he said. There’s a thud, and then both hands are on Mason’s ass, holding him still so Kennedy can grind his hardening dick against the mess he’s poured onto Mason’s ass. “Way I see it, you were already whoring around all day, it’d probably be wasting my time to stretch you out, right?”

“I wasn’t—” his face gets shoved into the mattress hard, so he goes still.

“I’m not interested in getting lied to anymore tonight, Mace,” Kennedy said with false casualness. 

Mason breathed. This was fine. He could take this. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, sweetie, I’ll forgive you if you behave the rest of the night,” Kennedy promised. Then Mason felt Kennedy press more firmly against his hole. He forced himself to relax against him, push out, but it was still an unbelievable pressure. He felt himself crying out but couldn’t do anything to stop it—could barely think past anything that wasn’t Kennedy’s cock opening him up. Kennedy was groaning above him, too, and Mason could feel his hips twitching already, never the patient type.

“Wait,” Mason gasped.

“You can take it,” Kennedy said, and then he leaned down to glue himself against Mason’s back, arms locked around Mason’s neck, his arm. Worst of was was that Kennedy was _right._ He always knew exactly how to push Mason just far enough until he could think of nothing but Kennedy, the feel of him, what he does to Mason, for it to be so good his entire body felt like coiled, shivering wire. He so badly wanted to move, for Kennedy to wait just a moment, but there wasn’t anything to do but take his increased tempo, letting himself get rocked and not being able to do anything about it.

Kennedy fisted Mason’s hair and pulled his head back in a wide arch, then swore. He fell onto Mason’s back and reached forward, patting around. “Keep the fucking glasses on. I want you to see this.”

He took them so Kennedy wouldn’t poke his eye out and awkwardly shoved them back onto his face as he was jostled by the thrusts of Kennedy’s hips and the pull at his hair. Being able to see was so obviously worse; Kennedy had them facing the full-length mirror, and Mason could 

“You see? See what a fucking slut you are?” Kennedy said. “This is how everyone should see you, all the time. So they know what you are, who you belong to. Now beg me for it.”

“I want,” Mason gasped again, breathed, and tried again, “I wanna get you off. Please.”

“Fuck yeah you do,” Kennedy said. _ “So _ good.”

When getting fucked, it was easy for Mason to tip into it too much, and with Kennedy, it was always too much. His entire body felt like a raw nerve, and there was no getting away from it. Kennedy was everywhere, stretching his hole open, covering him, making him watch. 

It was a relief when that telltale rumbling groan above him, the hot wet throb of Kennedy’s dick coming inside him, the feel of him gasping against his neck.

Mason squirmed, sore and sensitive, as Kennedy finally withdrew. He flopped weakly onto his back as Kennedy pulled off his torn briefs. _ Fuck. _ Mason felt disgusting, but the thought of walking all the way back to the bathroom felt like an insurpassable goal. He let Kennedy nudge his legs back apart, expecting a towel or something.

It was an unwelcome surprise when, instead, he felt Kennedy’s fingers sliding through the mess he made of Mason, digging back into him. The stretch should be easier to take, but Kennedy isn’t being gentle about it, three fingers collecting his own come and tucking it back inside of Mason.

“Dude, stop,” Mason groans, but Kennedy just curled his fingers precisely, sending light-hot shocks through Mason’s core.

“I want to see you come,” Kennedy said, like it was that simple of a request.

“I can’t—”

“I know you can.”

“I don’t _ like _it,” Mason sobbed, squirming away

“But I do,” Kennedy said. “Jerk yourself off.”

“What the _ fuck.” _

But Mason did it anyway—what other choice did he have? His dick felt like he’d already gone off once or twice, and he jerks away automatically, but Kennedy wraps a strong arm around one of his legs and demands again, “Come on, fucking do it.”

So Mason did, gently, but even that was enough to make his face prickle. And Kennedy was still looking at _ him, _ not his own hand or what he was making Mason do to himself, but Mason’s face behind the glasses Kennedy bought him. It made Mason feel so _ pinned. _

Mason came, like a sore sucking vacuum. He didn’t have any other choice.

As always, Kennedy was unbearably sweet afterward. He wiped Mason down for real, raised the AC a few degrees, tucked them both onto a dry spot.

Mason felt drained to his core but couldn’t sleep. He could practically hear Kennedy still thinking. “Out with it.”

Kennedy made a noncommittal noise, and then, like always, admitted in a rush, “I want you to come to New York with me in the fall.”

“Kennedy—”

“I’m serious. There’ll be so many more opportunities there than in Bumfuck, Central PA, and they’ll be _ better _opportunities. More pay, higher stakes. And my family will be there, and you know they all love you and want you to succeed.” He paused for a moment, traced a finger across Mason’s chest before spreading out his hand and saying, softly, “It’d be better for us, too.”

Mason knew he should say no. He knew he should say _ Fuck no, I’m getting away from you and your bullshit, I’m making my own way, I can, I’m strong enough. _

The truth of the matter was, the only half of a prospect Mason had for post-grad was at the non-profit that helped him get into St. Ambs in the first place, and while he could see some amount of poeticism in paying the fortune forward, there was no way the place could take him on full time, and if Mason were to move back home, whatever that meant, he’d need to buy a car, pay rent, figure out health insurance. All those little things that had been taken care of for the last four years.

Maybe a few more years wouldn’t hurt, Mason told himself. He couldn’t do a whole lifetime of this, but with two, three more years in New York, he could make connections of his own. Earn some money to put into an account under his own name. Enjoy the illusion of opulence just a little bit longer.

“I’ll think about it,” Mason said, finally. “Can you unfreeze my card, please? I almost caused a scene at Gravel & Stone.”

Kennedy snuggled closer, arms locked around Mason’s chest. He couldn’t see Kennedy’s face as he responded, “Maybe. Don’t make me worry again.”


End file.
